


Iridescence

by JeanBiscuit



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanBiscuit/pseuds/JeanBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Jean Kirschtein/Reader drabbles, ranging from fluff to smut to angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> so uh yeah i've sunk further into this jean kirschtein obsession  
> i basically have lots of ideas for drabbles that don't have enough weight to turn into multi-chapter fics, so i decided to start a little collection here  
> hope you enjoy!

In truth, you hated fireworks.

They were loud, scary, and they always made your body thrum in a way you didn’t enjoy.  The show was always the same every damn year, and you could go on for hours about the endless sea of people, and the overcrowded parking lots, especially the white suburban families in minivans who parked like idiots and/or had their doors open so wide on either side that no one could park next to them.

You would have stopped going years ago, if it wasn’t for your idiot boyfriend.

To be completely honest with yourself (which you almost never were), Jean did a lot for you.  He cared for you during that one special week every month, he held you when you cried, he made you food and persuaded you into a doctor’s visit when you were sick (you were of the opinion that most doctors were part of a conspiracy), and looked out for you in general.  You reciprocated when you could, but you always felt like it was never enough.

And that was why, every single goddamn year, you packed up a picnic basket, loaded up the car, and drove for 40 minutes to a small field (a sometimes refreshing change of scene from the bustling city where the two of you lived), to see the fireworks there.

You would have managed to weasel your way out of it years ago, if not for his stupid fucking _face._

His stupid face, as he gazed up at the colors bursting across the sky, was so childlike, so innocent, and so _happy,_ that you couldn’t find it in you to take that away. He had once told you that they were dear to him because of his childhood, and you vividly remember trying very hard to look understanding.

But really, you had no idea what a happy childhood felt like.  Everything that reminded you of your childhood you had viciously shoved away from you, removing every single trace of who you had been from everything you were.  Honestly, you couldn’t even remember half of your childhood, due to your previously undiscovered talent of repressing memories.

You had once been certain that Jean had just as much fun without you as with you, since you usually just grumbled and scowled the whole time, but during one year where you were too sick to go, long after you had convinced Jean to go without you, he called you. 

Immediately, of course, you had wondered what was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” you had asked anxiously, your voice clogged with congestion, phone in one hand and a tissue in the other as you lazed on the living room couch.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you had heard him sigh, and you had known he was running his hand through his hair.  “I’m packing up to go home right now.”

You were, of course, slightly alarmed.

“Did something happen?  Did it rain?”

“No, nothing like that,” he sighed again, and you heard the distinct boom of fireworks in the background.

“Then what’s up?  Why are you leaving?  I thought you loved the fireworks.”

“Yeah.  I do.  It just doesn’t feel right without you there.”

And that was how you found yourself sitting on a ragged picnic blanket on the fourth of July, in the middle of a field crowded with people screaming “USA” every three seconds, with a boyfriend who you never knew could be this sappy.  Jean had, of course, worn an American flag t-shirt for the occasion, and you had managed to expend as little effort as possible by tying an American flag bandana, purchased from a shady vendor, around your wrist.

The fireworks were popping and crackling above you, and you watched as the light reflected off of Jean’s wide eyes as he gazed upward, a small grin tugging at his lips. 

And all of a sudden something swelled and rushed in your chest like a wave as you looked at him, something so warm and desperate and _real_ that you felt like you were going to burst.

Without warning, you threw yourself at Jean, wrapping your arms around him in something resembling more a death grip than a hug. 

“W-Woah!” he exclaimed, frantically swinging his arms to try to regain balance.  “What the hell are you –” But when he felt you trembling, he went stock still.  “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, his arms coming to rest around you, like they had done thousands of times, holding you close.  “Is it too loud?  Is something bothering you?  Do you wanna leave?” 

You shook your head furiously, your face buried in his chest.  You dug your fingernails harder into the fabric of his jacket.

“Thank you,” you choked out, cursing the tears pricking at your eyes.

“For what?” he asked, utterly bewildered.

You looked up at him then, your lip trembling, and for the first time in years you felt like a child again.

Because, for the first time, that hard, bitter seed of loneliness and repressed anger that had been roiling inside you for years, the seed that enticed you to lock everything you felt deep inside of you, the seed that made you curl up on the cold bathroom floor in the middle of the night, the seed that ate and ate away at you because no matter what you did you just always felt so _alone._

But then, Jean Kirschtein, the idiotic, loud, brash, horse-faced boy had waltzed into your existence without so much as a warning, and little by little, day by day, night by night that you rolled over after a nightmare and had someone there to hold you, that dark, bitter, lonely seed had started to shrink. 

And it all welled up inside you then, like the final defenses on a dam finally breaking, the realization that you loved him.

Dear God, did you love him.

And without a single word, gesture, or even a noise, he knew.

“You fucking idiot,” he grumbled, and you could see his raging blush in the light of the fireworks.

And then he dipped his head down, and kissed you.

You reacted immediately, shifting into his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck.  His arms encircled your waist and crushed you to him.

You were crying when the two of you broke apart.  You hiccuped and rubbed your cheek with the back of one hand, your face burning with embarrassment.

“Jeez, it’s the fourth of July,” he sighed in mock exasperation, and when you looked up, blinking away tears, he was smiling.  “Can you go one day without climbing on top of me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said with a watery smile, and he chuckled, a deep vibration that resonated through your body, humming a soothing rhythm into your eardrums.

He clucked his tongue and used the cuff of his sleeve to wipe up the rest of your tears.  Laughter bubbled in your chest, and you swatted him away with an eye-roll. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” he sighed, ruffling your hair playfully.

“Dunno,” you sighed with a grin as you settled your back into his chest, tucking your head under his chin. 

“I thought you hated the fireworks,” he said softly.

“Yeah.  I do.  It just feels right with you here,” you responded.

“God, could you _be_ any cheesier?” he groaned, and you whipped around with a scowl.

“Who’s the cheesy one, Mr ‘The-Fireworks-Aren’t-the-Same-Without-You?’” you retorted, poking his chest to emphasize each word.

“Sh-Shut up!” he stammered, turning away from you, his cheeks aflame. 

You laughed, and suddenly there was a chorus of oohs and aahs, you looked up, and there was a giant American flag in the sky, comprised of countless fireworks, winking and sparkling merrily.

“Overrated,” Jean said flatly.

“Agreed.”

You looked back down, into his eyes, those weirdly soft and comforting amber eyes, and he whispered, “Happy fourth of July, you idiot.”

And then he kissed you again, as the sky slowly faded to black, amidst the hustle and bustle of the crowds around you.

And even though you hated fireworks, and you had more than a few opinions about America in general, you had to admit, a kiss under the fireworks was pretty fucking nice.

 


	2. Red Lipstick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to celebrate jean kirschtein being ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE  
> i wrote, well  
> this  
> it's kinda short, but i hope you enjoy anyways :)

You remember, the first time you kissed him; you got red lipstick on his mouth.

You remember your face going red with embarrassment, your anxious hands flying upwards to furiously scrub at his mouth, a slew of apologies streaming from your lips.

You remember him laughing.

You remember him capturing your fluttering hands, like someone would capture a butterfly.  You remember him saying that it was about time he had a makeover anyway.

You remember him kissing you again.

* * *

You remember the first date, how wonderfully disastrous it had been.  It had rained, then down-poured, and then almost-tornadoed.  You remember huddling in his car, a beat-up Honda Civic, with cracking leather seats and brakes that squealed like piglets, and waiting out the storm.  You remember asking with as much sexiness as you could muster what the two of you could do to pass the time.  You remember his thumbs sliding over your cheekbones as you practically climbed over the armrest and into his lap.

* * *

And then there were the awkward in-between months, filled with cautious kisses and lingering touches.  Months filled with sexually charged movie dates and careful kisses at doorsteps, kisses that threatened to breach into something much, much more.  They were months filled with introductions, to aunts and uncles and cousins and others who you had never even met, endless conversations, yes, we’re dating, yes, we go to the same college, yes, we’ve been together for ___ months, we don’t know if we want to get married.

No, we don’t want kids.

* * *

And then there was the night you broke down in your new apartment, onto the cold, hard, bathroom floor, your cellphone on the other side of the room, its screen cracked, and a voicemail from your father blinking on its screen.

And you remembered, then, the long, long nights filled with alcohol-tainted breath, swearing, shouting, so much shouting, shouting so loud it shook the floorboards, and threatened to tear apart the walls and every last shred of your hope for something _better_.

And you remembered him stumbling into the bathroom, blinking sleepiness from his eyes as he saw your writhing, convulsing, sobbing form on the floor.  You remember him dropping to his knees beside you and asking, twice, thrice, four times, what was wrong, what was wrong, what was wrong.

And you could only shake your head because you knew that if you tried to speak the only thing that would leave your mouth would be a scream. 

You looked up at him, then, tears streaming down your face, your hands scrabbling at your chest, pulling and tugging at your shirt as if trying to remove it, as if removing it would remove what was buried deep in your chest, the _thing_ that ached and stung and _burned_ every time you remembered those days.

He wrapped his arms around you, then.  You knew that he saw the phone across the room, the cracked screen, the name blinking on its surface, and you knew that he understood, to some extent.

The two of you stayed like that, for an indeterminable amount of time, Jean just rocking you, to and fro, whispering meaningless mumblings into your ear, stroking your hair, as your convulsions and sobs gradually subsided.

You remember pouring out your entire soul to him, laying it bare on the cold, hard, bathroom floor.

* * *

You remember driving past a car accident, a horrible one, a semi-truck that had nearly flattened a smaller car.

You remember Jean stiffening in the front seat, gripping the armrest, his knuckles turning white.  You asked him what was wrong, and he shook his head.

That night, it was your turn.

You held him on the bathroom floor as he told you about his best friend in high school, who had died in a car crash, who had been torn almost cleanly in half from colliding with a truck driving on the wrong side of road. 

His name was Marco.

* * *

You remember him saying he was going to a friend’s bachelor party two states over, that he would be back in two days, that he would call you when he got back to the hotel that night.

You told him to stay away from the strippers.

He laughed.

* * *

That night, late, at 3 am, he called you from a gas station, obviously very drunk, and told you not to worry, that they were fine, that the guy driving was totally sober, albeit a little sleepy, that they were on their way to the hotel, and that he had, indeed, stayed away from the strippers.

You laughed.

* * *

At 3:00 pm the next day, you remember you got a call from a number you didn’t know.

On a whim, you decided to answer it.

It was from a hospital two states over.

* * *

You remember, the last time you kissed him; you got teardrops on his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know what's wrong with me
> 
> but i promise a happier drabble is coming next! it'll be a fun prompt i got from someone on tumblr, about a certain horse-faced boy's dancing skills ;)
> 
> as always, if you have questions/prompts, send them to my tumblr, jean--biscuit


	3. Wiggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a prompt from stairswarning on tumblr  
> i don't have the original message, since being the idiot i am i didn't paste it anywhere, but basically it was a prompt for jean dancing to a song like wiggle and either being really terrible or really good at it.  
> so uh i wrote this  
> i kinda strayed from the request a little bit, but hope you enjoy anyways! :)

You considered yourself to be a very tolerant person.  You had managed to not kill a single one of your friends.  (Yet.)  You tolerated Jean’s idiotic “guy movies” that dumb fucking Jaeger had gotten him into.  You had managed not to destroy the DVD copy of Top Gun that Jean so lovingly watched almost every single fucking week.  You held your tongue when he left the seat up, because really, it wasn’t _that_ big of a deal. 

But this – this was crossing the line.

Sure, you hadn’t seen half of these people since high school, and you had missed some of them dearly, but _this?  This_ was the setting that your oh-so-lovely boyfriend had picked to be the meet-up spot?

At least you weren’t the only one uncomfortable.  Annie was leaning up against the bar, hand curled protectively around her drink, shooting murderous glances at every guy that came close.  Reiner and Bertholdt were out on the dance floor, much to Bertholdt’s anxiety (well, to be honest, what didn’t make Bertl anxious?) and she seemed almost lost without them by her side.  She didn’t just feel it, she looked it, too.  The space around her seemed almost painfully hollow without those two hulking boys to fill it.

You knew Mikasa was uncomfortable in large crowds, as well, but she had diligently followed an already very drunk Eren out onto the dance floor, her trademark red scarf disappearing in the roiling mess of alcohol-reeking bodies.  You knew she worried about him enough, but her concern multiplied tenfold when the idiot was drunk.  He had a nasty habit of starting bar fights when she wasn’t around. 

Even Armin, who almost always had his nose buried in a book when he was dragged to these things, had been given just enough alcohol to go out onto the dance floor of his own volition.

And, just your luck, Jean had picked this particular night to get very, very drunk.  And when Jean Kirschtein got very, very drunk, he had a habit of doing very, very stupid things.  He and Jaeger were alike in that regard. 

And so, naturally, you had been given the task of watching over your drunken boyfriend.  And, for some unknown reason, tonight, he wanted to dance.

Your head was pounding from the strobe lights and the too-loud music as you doggedly followed the idiot around the small space.  You had to force yourself between countless foul-smelling bodies, avoiding the men as they reached for you, trying to dodge the drinks spilling left and right, and all the while trying to keep that copper-blond head in view. 

In short, you were going to give him hell for this later.

You heard a loud, familiar laugh, and when you caught up to Horseface, he was sitting down at a table on the edge of the dancefloor, joking with Reiner, who was also very drunk, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders. 

“An’ – an’ so _I_ said,” Jean slurred, pausing to stifle a giggle, “I said to ‘im, I says, ‘If the shoe fits, then fuckin’ wear it!”  Both men burst out guffawing, sloshing their mugs of beer all over the floor, and you rolled your eyes.

“How many have you had, Jean?” you sighed exasperatedly, snatching the mug from his grasp and slamming it down onto the table.

“L-Like – dunno – two,” he mumbled, glaring at you, as he swayed slightly.

“Mhm,” you said skeptically, sliding the mug out of his grasp as he reached for it.  “Well, this is the _sixth_ one I’ve counted, and seeing as I’m the only sober person in this goddamn establishment, I think I’ll trust my own fucking judgment on this one.”

“Shaddup,” he grumbled, clawing for his mug again, which you plopped onto the tray of a passing waitress with an apologetic smile.

“No more,” you chastised, placing your hands on your hips.  “I don’t want have to clean up a trail of barf from the front door to the bathroom _ever_ again.”

“Aaah, tha’ was one time,” he said nonchalantly, waving a hand.  “I’m _fine._ ”

“Yeah, you said that last time, too.”

“Did fuckin’ not.”

“Did fucking so.”

“Shaddup.”

You rolled your eyes, tsking irritably. 

"Why don' you have a drink?" Jean asked, blinking blearily.

"Because I don't drink, jackass, you know this," you snapped, crossing your arms in front of you.

"Oh . . . yeah . . .," Jean mumbled, reaching for a mug that wasn't there, and then scowling at you.

In the background, you heard the awful dubstep remix they were playing abruptly come to an end.  Another beat immediately kicked up after it, a strumming one with whistles in the background, and then, “ ** _Hey yo, Jason_**.”

Your blood ran cold.

“ ** _Say somethin’.  Holla at her_**.”

Oh no.

Another voice, _**“I got one question.”**_

Oh dear God, no.

“ ** _How’d you fit_ all that _–”_**

You saw Jean’s eyes widen, a lopsided smirk sprouting across his lips.

**_“– in them jeans?”_ **

Christ on a bike, _not this goddamn song._

**_“You know what to do with that big fat butt –”_ **

Jean was leaping out of his chair faster than you ever thought possible, throwing his arm around your waist and dragging you backwards onto the dance floor.

“Hey –!” you protested, struggling in his grip, but his arm was like an iron vice around your midsection.

You came to an abrupt stop, and whipped around, to find his face inches from yours, his hands resting on your hips.  The smell of alcohol on his breath was suffocating, and you scrunched up your nose.

But you forgot that in an instant, when –

**_“Wiggle wiggle wiggle.”_ **

And Jean readily complied.

He pulled you closer, his hips grinding against yours, as he moved them to the beat of the whistling. 

**_“Wiggle wiggle wiggle.”_ **

His hips moved in a tight circle, his crotch brushing irresistibly close to yours, and you felt warmth spread in your abdomen.  

**_“Wiggle wiggle wiggle.”_ **

His hips undulated against yours, rocking in a slow, thrusting motion, and you couldn’t help the breathy moan that escaped from your lips as your arms involuntarily snaked around his neck.

Dear Jesus did you hope that the crowd was too thick for the two of you to be seen.

He pressed his lips to the skin just below your ear, lightly sucking, his hips still rocking against yours, and as you moaned again you felt his smirk against your skin. 

**_“Just a little bittle . . . swiiing.”_ **

As the singer’s voice upped in pitch, Jean sucked especially hard, and you cried out, but thankfully it was lost amidst the thumping bass.

**_“Patty cake, patty cake, with no hands –”_ **

His thumbs started moving in slow circles over your hipbones, and you pressed yourself closer to him, wanting to feel all of the muscles underneath his shirt. In fact, you wanted to rip that shirt right off of his body and splay your fingers over those firm, rounded, glistening abs of his.

**_“Got me in the club making wedding plans.”_ **

His hips suddenly ground forcefully into yours, and you stifled a yelp, your fingers sliding away from his neck and grabbing his jaw, wrenching his face up to yours and smashing your lips against his.

His mouth tasted of alcohol and stale nightclub air, but you honestly didn’t have a single fuck to give.  The lyrics to the song were lost in the haze of your mind as his teeth nipped at your bottom lip and you readily accepted.  His tongue slid into your mouth, massaging incessantly against yours, and you responded aggressively, your hands finding their way into his hair and tugging at the copper-blond strands.

He growled into your mouth, his hips grinding roughly against yours, and you sighed into the kiss.

But then you heard the goddamn chorus strike up again, and Jean detached himself from you with a wicked grin.

“Bastard,” you whispered breathily as he started moving his hips again to the beat of the song, swinging tantalizingly close to your own.

You had to admit, Jean Kirschtein sure did know how to work his hips, even when shitfaced drunk. 

And, recently, this song had been the bane of your fucking existence, because every time Horseface heard those words, **_“Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle,”_** he felt the overpowering urge to drag you into the nearest secluded place and grind on you until you saw stars.

You had asked him about it once, in the middle of one of your exploits, and he had simply replied, with a shit-eating grin, “Can’t help it.  These hips have a mind of their own.”

And oh, they certainly seemed to, the way they were rippling and grinding against yours in ways you had never thought possible.

You pressed yourself to him, and you could feel his length pressing against you, and immediately thoughts of what he would do to you when you got home that night filled up your consciousness.

“You two havin’ fun over here?”

You jumped away from Jean as if you had been pricked, and whipped around to see Eren Jaeger standing to your right, clutching a drink, swaying dangerously on his feet.  He grinned lopsidedly at the two of you, and he swayed so dangerously that he slopped his drink onto the floor.

“Get lost, Jaeger,” Jean growled, his hands that had stayed steadfast on your hips tightening.

“You guys should find a corner or somethin’,” Eren responded, gesturing with his glass to the crowd of people around the two of you, who as they danced by flashed you strange looks.

Your eyes whipped back to Jean, narrowing dangerously, and he grinned sheepishly.

“We’re leaving,” you spat, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him away.

“Hey!  Ow!  What’s with you?  Why’re we goin’?” he garbled, his fumbling fingers trying to detach yours from his head.

“Because,” you sighed, turning around and bringing your face within inches of his, your fingers still tight in his scalp, “I need you to fuck me as soon as possible.”

His eyes widened, and he blinked a few times, seemingly trying to process what you had just said.  You saw the realization click behind his eyes, and a fiery blush spread all the way to the tips of his ears.  He slowly nodded, and you turned on your heel, making your way through the crowd toward the door, waving a quick goodbye to Sasha and Connie, who were seated at the bar taking shots. 

You kicked the door open and dragged Horseface out into the cool night air, taking big gulps of it into your lungs.  You exhaled, watching the white steam of your breath curl away into nothingness.

“You gonna let go now?” you heard Jean grumble from behind you, and you reluctantly released him.

He stood up to his full height, rubbing his scalp, frowning at you sleepily.

You rolled your eyes and tched.

“Come on, Kirschtein,” you said brusquely, taking his hand, “let’s flag down a cab.”

* * *

And sure enough, later that night, away from the nightclub crowd, and safely under your bed sheets, he continued to demonstrate that remarkable talent of his.

And as his hips rolled into yours, his length thrusting in and out of you, and as your nails raked down his back, and you cried out in ecstasy, you had to remark that maybe that stupid song was a godsend after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO WRITE  
> JESUS CHRIST THAT WAS ALMOST WORSE THAN THE SMUT AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY  
> anyway uh i hope i fulfilled the prompt to some extent.......
> 
> if you have any questions/prompts, send them to my tumblr, jean--biscuit


	4. The Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a prompt from Tehani here on ao3 for a Beast-TitanShifter!Reader  
> This may or may not turn into a multi-chapter fic if I feel the need to continue it and I have the time, but since I'm starting school soon, and I have a lot of other things on my plate, this may end up just being a one-shot. But we'll see!  
> Hope you enjoy, and thank you for the prompt, Tehani! :)

Everything was going so well.

You were skimming through the sky, listening to the whistling and clinking of your wires as Titans surged between the trees below you.  You had long gotten used to the blood, the screams.  The minute you stepped out onto the battlefield, the minute your frame lifted itself into the blue-drenched sky, you went numb.  You were not like Jean and Eren, who used their anger to push themselves forward.  You were not like Mikasa, fighting for the one she loved (even though you would like to think so).  You were not like most of the others, who torqued their bodies through the air and risked everything for humanity, or just for the glory of being free.  If you had to pick one person who you were like on the battlefield, it would have to be Annie Leonhardt.  

And frankly, that terrified you.

But it all happened so fast.  

He was snatched out of the air in an instant, by the arm, and you heard a loud pop as his shoulder was wrenched from its socket.  His hooks clanked dully back into his belt, and you saw his trembling amber eyes slowly look up into the smile of a Titan.  

In your moment of panic, your focus slipped for an instant.

An instant was all it took.

A mass of flesh came at you suddenly from your left side, and you were instantly propelled sideways, your hooks wrenching themselves from where they had been sheathed.  Your vision became an explosion of colored dots.  You felt more than a few bones snap.  You hit the forest floor with a dull thud, your gaze trained upwards, sliding up the thick tree trunks and to the distant canopy, where sunlight was filtering through the thick summer leaves.  It was beautiful.  

You heard a scream, and your gaze slowly shifted over, as pain throbbed dully throughout your entire body.  

It was Jean.  The Titan had him by both arms now, and was slowly dragging him towards its open jaws.  Jean was yelling wildly, kicking furiously with his legs, wrenching from side to side, trying to escape the Titan's grip.  His blades were dangling uselessly at his sides.  And a jolt went through you as you watched, as if you had been electrically shocked.  Your heartbeat, which had been thrumming dully, gradually slowing towards a halt, rapidly picked up speed, thumping so hard you thought it was going to burst out of your rib cage.  

You felt something, _something_ , flow through your veins, and it was like liquid fire, causing your vision to clear, your muscles to buzz with intensity.  Involuntarily, your top teeth sought out your bottom lip, biting down with a decisive snap.  

A single droplet of red blood emerged.

An explosion rippled through the forest, bending the large trunks and snapping off the smaller branches, sending a shock wave so large that even the troops stationed outside the ring of trees felt it vibrate through the soles of their boots.

And all you knew as you stood up, 15 meters tall, fur bristling over your entire frame, was that Jean was in danger.  You shot toward him, your leg muscles rippling, your suddenly lupine feet bending deftly to adjust to the terrain, and snatched him right out of the Titan's grip.  You heard him scream again, and with a rumble that almost sounded exasperated, you tucked him into your breast, curling your large paw around him, your claws forming an impenetrable barrier over his head.  You could feel his shaking through your arm, and witnesses still claim they saw you roll your eyes.

Everything sort of dissolved after that.  You only remembered vague feelings, the feeling of flesh ripping beneath your claws as you tore Titans apart, the feeling of your fangs baring against your lips as you snarled and growled.  You remember hearing Jean yelling, remember feeling his fists pounding futilely on your giant fingers.  You remember your feet ripping through the ground, leaving long, deep furrows in the forest floor.  You remember your vision turning red as you roared, your humanity gradually slipping away, as you tore through everything in your path, knocking over trees and blowing shocked soldiers out of the way with the force of your movement.  

And there were a few moments, at the end, when you were standing amidst at least thirty steaming Titan corpses, that a little bit of sensation began to trickle back.  You dimly remember gingerly setting Jean on the ground. And then you suddenly came to, inside, and your vision met sinew and flesh.  You could feel veins connecting your face to the body, you could feel your arms and legs wrapped in tendons, your torso enveloped by muscle.

Naturally, you panicked.  

With a frustrated yell, you violently jerked upwards, ripping the tendons from your skin.  You needed air, you couldn't breathe, you needed to get out, you could feel the surface drawing near, you felt the body around you slump.  

You suddenly burst into the open air, gasping, a bolt shooting through your head as your eyes were suddenly exposed to the myriad of forest colors.  You could feel the sunlight warming your face, and you wanted to cry.  

You slowly registered the form you had been encased in melting and evaporating around you, and you were somehow able to stumble out of the Titanflesh, your limbs as heavy as lead, your whole body feeling as if it were about to drift away.

You hadn't calculated how high up the back of the Titan's neck was.  Your next footfall met empty air, and you were suddenly, abruptly, falling.  You saw the ground speeding toward you, and you closed your eyes.

Strong arms suddenly wrapped around you, breaking your fall, and your eyes snapped open, taking in the brown leather inches from your nose.  As you inhaled, you smelled something.  You knew that something.

You slowly looked up, your vision blurry, into Jean's eyes.

"What . . . the hell. . . .," he breathed, staring down at you, his gaze incredulous.  

Your eyes slowly flicked around, from the rapidly decomposing Titan body covered in fur, to the gaping hole in its neck, to the soldiers rapidly closing in around you.  Jean looked up at the soldiers approaching, and his grip automatically tightened around you.

"Hey," you breathed, your voice cracking, and Jean jumped at the sound.  He whipped his head around to look at you, eyes cautious, waiting.

"Guess what I can do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: if you look up the definition of lupine it gives you some botany definition, but in actuality it means wolf-like.  
> wow this is really short now that i look at it but i kinda wanted to end it like that, even though it was stupid. i may continue this in the future, since there are lots of paths it could take, but i don't know, so stay tuned!
> 
> if you have any questions/prompts, send them to my tumblr, jean--biscuit


	5. Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyy   
> this was a prompt from an anon on tumblr, this took forever for me to actually start, but i keep my promises. they just take forever for me to fulfill.  
> hope you enjoy!  
> WARNING for sexy times ahead (you're welcome)

It was a balmy, cool, Sunday evening.  Sort of a boring way to start a tale, mind you, but there really is no other way to start this one.  The fog lay over the city like a blanket of cotton, muffling all sound and vision, creeping into homes and swirling into one’s very bones.  

You were sitting naked on your bed, fresh out of the shower, staring out the open window, clutching a blanket to your chest.  The moonlight pooled into the room like spools of silk, softly brushing over the floorboards and curving around your frame.  The drops of water falling from your hair sparkled as they curved towards the carpeting.

You didn’t exactly know why you had chosen to just sit on the bed and stare out the window.  You had just been suddenly entranced by the view, from a window you had been looking out of for almost a year now.  It had never struck you how ethereal it was, the moonlight breaking up and dispersing in the fog curling over the rooftops, the headlights of cars passing by below, throwing up beams of light, the squares of warmth emanating from adjacent apartment buildings.

In short, it was beautiful, and you were kicking yourself for never having noticed.

You distantly heard footsteps from behind you, but were too busy with the view to care.  It was only when you heard the sharp intake of breath from the doorway that you whipped around.

Of course, it was Jean.  

You didn’t know why you were surprised, your boyfriend spent most of his time here, even though you two weren’t officially living together yet.

But the real problem was that he hadn’t yet seen you naked.

With a small squeak, you quickly wrapped the blanket clutched in front of you around yourself, and stood up, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.  

“S-Sorry,” you managed to grit out.  You didn’t really know what you were sorry for, it was just an automatic response.

“You’re beautiful, you know,” he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step into the room.  

You had to resist the urge to snort.  You, beautiful?  That was a laugh.

“Thanks for your input, but you’d be the first,” you responded instead, cursing the automatic snark in your tone.

You moved to leave the room, but stopped as he stepped in further, closer to you.

You loved Jean, really, you did, and it was that love that made you shy away from him seeing you.  Because you weren’t beautiful, really, you were just the opposite.

“I’m not just flattering you, you know,” he whispered, stepping even closer, and your heart fluttered.  

“Mhm,” you responded skeptically, staring up into his amber eyes, turned silver by the moonlight.

“Really,” he insisted, cupping your face in his hands and softly bringing his lips to yours.

You sighed, wanting to wrap your arms around his neck, but you stiffened, remembering that if you let go of this blanket, everything would be lost.

His lips moved, then, fluttering across your cheek, over your jawbone, and started down your neck.  His hands settled on your hips, rubbing soft circles into them, and you shivered.  God, you loved it when he did that.

You were practically buzzing now, as he slowly walked you backwards towards the bed, his lips plastered to your skin.

He slowly laid you down, and settled over you, his elbows supporting him, as his lips moved to your collarbone, kissing in the hollows just below your neck, into the dip of the bone.  He brushed over the edge of the blanket still around you, and you stiffened.

“You don’t have to take it off if you don’t want to,” he murmured, looking up at you, his amber eyes clouded with lust, and yet still warm.  

Your breath hitched in your throat, and as you looked at him, warmth pooled in your abdomen, because god, you loved him, and he loved you, and you desperately, desperately wanted him to touch you, you wanted to feel his fiery hot lips over every inch of you.

But you were afraid.

You were so, so afraid that he would hate what he saw, that he would be repulsed.  Were you willing to take that chance?  He claimed you were beautiful, but what if he suddenly wished he could take it back?

But as his hands rubbed your hips and his lips moved back up your neck, you decided you didn’t care.  You wanted him, wanted him so badly, and if he loved you, then he would accept you.  Right?

Slowly, ever so slowly, you opened the edges of the blanket, fully revealing yourself to him.  He abruptly stopped his ministrations and drew himself up to look at you.  You heard his breath catch, but you couldn’t see his eyes, he was just hovering there, staring at you.

As you were about to say something, he looked up at you, and his brows were furrowed.

Oh.  Oh no.

“What are these bruises from?” he asked, his voice tight, gesturing to the purple marks on your left breast.

Oh.  

You sighed.  “Those aren’t bruises,” you said bitterly.  “They’re stretch marks.”

“Stretch marks?” he asked curiously, cocking his head to one side.  Gosh, he was cute.

“You get ‘em when you grow.  If your skin isn’t all that elastic, when everything starts to, you know, fill out and stuff, it leaves marks.  I have some on my right thigh, too,” you explained, your gaze stubbornly trained on the ceiling.

“Can I look?” he breathed, and you couldn’t quite decipher what the tone of his voice meant.  

“Wouldn’t see why you’d want to, but fine,” you grumbled, turning over slightly.  

You heard him exhale, and his fingers gingerly reached out to brush over them.  You shivered.

“Cool,” he whispered, his fingertips tracing over them.

“Cool?!” you asked incredulously, your arousal disappearing.  “What’s cool about them?!”

“Well,” he began, his eyebrows crinkling as he tried to find the right words, “it’s like you’re like, a painting, or something, you know?  And these,” he traced over the marks again, “are like the signatures of what made you.  They’re unique marks that are yours, and yours alone.  It’s like you were autographed by the world.”

“Interesting way to think about it,” you managed, but your heart was thumping so hard you could hardly breathe.  God, what a dork.  What a fucking dork.

You slowly turned back over onto your back, your arms splayed out on either side of you, your chest heaving with labored breaths.  

As he settled over you once more, his eyes moved lower, over your waist, and finally down “there.”

“I know, I know, guys don’t like the hair, my apologies,” you groaned.

“There’s hair everywhere, dummy,” he snorted, rolling his eyes, and a feeling welled up in your chest like nothing you had ever felt, and you suddenly bolted up, surprising him, and smashed your lips to his.

“Wh-What?” he gasped as you pulled away, panting.

“Thank you,” you blubbered, tears pricking at your eyes.  “Thank you.”

“Geez, such a crybaby,” he scoffed, and you laid back down on the bed, huffing.  

“You gonna continue, or what?” you mumbled, looking away from him, your cheeks red.

He chuckled, and obediently followed orders.

His hands slowly came up to cup at your breasts, and you sighed, tiny electrical shocks buzzing through your spine.  His head slowly lowered to your chest, and he started placing light butterfly kisses all over your skin, dipping into the valley of your breasts.  You arched your back as his mouth moved to the left one, softly brushing over your nipple.  A moan escaped your mouth, and you could feel his smirk against your skin.  He switched to the right one, paying it the same treatment, and by now your head was practically swimming, your hands clutching the bedsheets.

He moved on, kissing over every inch of your stomach, his thumbs still rubbing circles in your hips.

He finally reached the curl of hair between your legs, kissing just at the hairline, and you moaned loudly.

“Get on with it.  You have to take something off, too,” you breathed angrily, and he laughed.

You heard the rustle of clothing, and you looked up and he was bare in front of you, and oh, sweet jesus, was he ripped.

God fuckin damn, were you lucky.

“Eh,” you said with a grin.  “You’re alright.”

“Rude,” he grumbled, and you laughed.  “You sure you wanna do this?” he asked as he slid back up your body, placing sporadic kisses as he went.

“Oh, please, dear god, just fuck me already,” you moaned, and you felt him twitch.

You could feel his hips inching closer to yours, and then something hard and wide brushed against your opening.

Christ.

You braced yourself, clutching the bedsheets, as he slowly slid into you, sending off a flurry of sensations through your brain.  But it didn’t hurt, it didn’t hurt at all, and then he was all the way in, and he was breathing heavily above you, his eyes screwed shut.

“What, can’t even last a minute?” you teased, and you heard a growl rumble in his throat as he glared at you.

He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, licking and biting, as he slowly slid out and plunged back in.

You cried out, your arms going around his neck, your back arching.  You could feel his smirk again, and you wanted to yell at him, but before you could even fire a sarcastic remark, he did it again, harder this time, and it was sort of uncomfortable as you tried to adjust, but god, did it feel good.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he built up a steady rhythm, and his lips started to circle over your chest again, his tongue flicking over your breasts, and you threw your head back, moaning.  

One of his hands snaked down your body and pressed into your folds, right onto your clit, and you bit back a scream.  Christ, where did he learn to do this?!  Well, sure, you had read your fair share of erotic novels, but you could never picture Jean sitting down with a copy of “Forbidden Fruit” or some shit.  

Slowly, a crescendo started to rise, stars burst behind your closed eyelids, you were sure you were making Jean bleed with all of the scratching you were doing, but suddenly, none of it mattered as something burst inside of you, and you cried out, arching so far off of the bed you thought you were about to fly away.  

It was like a thousand waves crashing inside of you, sending pleasure buzzing through every single nerve in your body.  You felt Jean tremble inside of you as your walls constricted around him, and you felt a warm liquid dripping onto your thighs.

You collapsed back onto the bed, coming down from your high, panting as if you had just run a marathon.  

Jean collapsed as well, except, you know, he was on top.

All of his body weight fell on top of you as he slid out, compressing the air in your lungs.  You had to admit, it was kind of comfortable, though.

“Told you,” you heard him murmur, and your bleary gaze flicked down to him.  He looked into your eyes, and smiled softly.  “You’re beautiful.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes, and tucked his head back into the crook of your neck with your hand, twining your fingers in your hair.

Yeah.

You were beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah uh  
> that wasn't gonna be a smut, and then i remembered it's gonna be a bit before any smut happens in hello, my old heart, so i thought i would treat you all with this.  
> i myself have stretch marks, even though i'm pretty skinny, and i thought it was an important issue to address, since a lot of people have them. 
> 
> if you have any prompts/questions, send them to my tumblr, jean--biscuit


	6. Wildflowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p sure this was a prompt from an anon on tumblr forever ago, i'm slowly working through these, only two more to go!!  
> anyways, hope you enjoy!

You had a collection of wildflowers.  Tiny ones, large ones, orange ones, blue ones, red ones, ones beaten and battered by trampling feet, and others fresh and vibrant like a summer day.  You pressed them between books, so they would keep.  You would brush your fingers over them, from time to time, and smile softly to yourself.  

You picked a wildflower whenever you saw a heartbeat stop.  There had been so many as of late.  You even picked ones for heartbeats you hadn’t seen halt.  Marco’s flower had been the first.  It was tiny, and blue, with a yellow center surrounded by five points on each petal, like a star.  

On that day, the day when everything had gone wrong, the day when the people with strange 3dmg gear flew all around you, you thought you would have to go wildflower picking.  When the woman landed in the wagon, in front of him, him, and kicked the gun out of his hands, pointing her own to his head, you had been sure of it.  

You remember a scream bubbling in your throat, remember everything going red, remember poising your blades for the finishing blow.

You had never made a heartbeat stop before.  

You looked into his face, Jean’s face, into his terrified amber eyes, stared at the muzzle pointed straight between them, stared at the finger tightening around the trigger.

You remembered everything, everything, all the nights you had fallen into his arms and cried until you couldn’t feel anymore, all the times he had smiled at you, you remembered his voice, his smell, the feel of his skin, the softness of his hair.

A shot rang out.

You landed in the wagon, and held him in your arms, and cried.  Oh, you cried.  You wailed as the wagon rattled on, as your teammates landed beside you, staring at you, you could feel their gazes, but you didn’t care.  

Your tears were soaking into his shirt, dripping onto his neck, you were convulsing violently, hiccuping, blubbering, your fingernails digging into his skin.  Your heart beat like the pattering of human feet, pounding on and on and on and through your chest and your temples and the tips of your fingers.  You kissed his face repeatedly, soaking his cheeks and lips with tears, resting your forehead against his and crying some more as you cradled him.  There were specks of blood sprayed over his cheeks, and you furiously wiped them off, cradling his cheekbones with your thumbs and brushing your fingers against his jawline.

You did not have to go wildflower picking that day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was really short i apologize but i like writing short things sometimes. i tend to drag things on, and i think it's infinitely cool how you can convey so much meaning in a single sentence. 
> 
> if you have any prompts/questions, send them to my tumblr, jean--biscuit


	7. Transcontinental

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a dumb drabble about train rides idk man

You don’t quite know what drove you to it.  Life had grown too heavy, too intense.  You were tired, ridiculously so.

And suddenly, one day, you found yourself at a train station, buying a one-way ticket for San Francisco, with a suitcase carrying all the goods you couldn’t ship over and a not-entirely-for-certain job waiting for you.  

The ticket was stiff and crisp in your fingers as you trudged toward the platform, shifting your bag on your shoulder.  Excitement buzzed in your stomach, or was that anxiety?  You couldn’t tell anymore.

What were you doing?  You had a stable job, here, in Boston, the city of poorly-planned street layouts, the city of skyscrapers and 200 year old churches placed side-by-side.  You had friends, a nice apartment, you knew every inch of downtown by heart, knew every bookstore, every thrift shop.  What you were doing?  Moving yourself to some unknown place, with unknown people, unknown buildings, all just because you had gotten bored?

Was this how adults were supposed to act?  You leaned against a steel pillar, sliding your phone out of your pocket a few inches to check the time.  Were they supposed to just uproot everything they had been placing for years, and go off on their own?  But it had hit you, that night, staring out over the streets.  A feeling of intense claustrophobia.  The city was sprawled out before you, and your apartment wasn’t particularly little, but it had suddenly felt as if this corner of the world had gotten too small, too restricted, you felt as if you had to escape or you would go mad.  The world had become too close around you, you had outgrown this space, like a toddler outgrows a crib.

You heard the screeching of brakes, and turned to see the train speeding towards you.  It rumbled to a stop in front of you, emitting a great hiss of steam.  The doors slid open with a pleasant-sounding chime, and you shouldered your way onto the vehicle.  

You surveyed the array of seats with experienced eyes.  There was no time to deliberate, or the best seats would be taken.  You spotted a choice one tucked into a corner near a window, and pushed your way towards it, perhaps being a little too rough with an older-looking woman, but you were experienced in the art of train travel.  Shove or be shoved.  

You plopped down into the marginally soft seat (you had booked a more expensive ride for this cross-country trip) and slid your bag off your shoulder with a sigh.  You squished yourself into the corner, nudging your bag under the seat in front of you with your feet.  You desperately hoped you didn’t get an overweight flatulent man as your neighbor.  That had happened too many times for you to count.

You squeezed yourself even farther into the corner as you eyed the people walking by.  Every time a middle-aged man’s head popped into view you grimaced.  You changed your mind, those ones were the worst to sit next to.  

You waited.  Perhaps you didn’t have any other people in your row?  You scoffed at the foolish thought.  Of course you did.  It wasn’t a train ride without someone smushed into the seat next to you.  This train would only take you so far as Chicago, so you wouldn’t be stuck with someone for too long.

You were still staring listlessly out at the crowd when a copper-blond head popped into view.  You sat up slightly.  The copper-blond head was accompanied by amber eyes, a straight nose, and a long, chiseled face.  The man glanced at his ticket, at the row number above him, and then at you.

“Guess this is who I’m stuck with, huh,” he drawled, a lazy smile coiling across his lips.

You couldn’t fight down the blush that rose to your face.  Goddammit he was attractive.  “Guess so,” you managed, and he chuckled, before maneuvering his way into the seat next to you.

“Where you headed?” he asked conversationally as he shifted his bag off of his shoulder.

“San Francisco,” you replied before you could stop yourself.  You wanted to hit yourself in the goddamn face, just because this guy was ridiculously attractive you were going to tell him where you were going?!

“You’re kidding,” he laughed, rummaging in his pocket.  “Me too!” He held up the ticket triumphantly, and you saw the words “San Fran” printed on it in bold block letters.

“Changing at Chicago?” you asked tentatively, unclenching your fist to examine your ticket as well.

“Yeah!” he replied happily, a grin stretching across his face.  

“What a coincidence,” you mused, searching for that telltale gut tug you always got when a guy wasn’t all that trustworthy, but all you found were quivering butterflies fluttering inside your stomach.  “Guess I’m stuck with you for the long haul, then.”

“22 hours,” he sighed, placing his hands behind his head and leaning backwards.  “Where’re you changing after Chicago?”

“What, planning to follow me?” you snorted, yet fear clenched your gut for a brief second. It had happened before.

“No,” he said sincerely, glancing at you.  “Just wondering how long I’m going to be stuck with you, is all.”

“After Chicago . . .,” you began, reaching down to sift through your bag.  You drew out a sheet of paper and unfolded it.  “The California Zephyr towards Emeryville Amtrak . . . then to Richmond Transit Station . . . then on the Fremont-Richmond bus towards Fremont . . . then at MacArthur, the Pittsburg/Bay Point-SFIA/Millbrae towards San Francisco International Airport . . . then to Embarcadero, Metro Embarcadero Station towards Visitacion Valley via Downtown, and then finally stop at 4th St & King St.”  You looked up at him, and he was grinning roguishly.

“Same for me, almost word for word,” he said, and you blinked.

“Really?  You goin’ out for a job?” you asked curiously, stuffing the paper back into your bag.

“Sightseeing,” he said casually, shrugging his shoulders.  “Why?  You goin’ out for a job?”

“Yeah,” you said evasively, shifting in your seat.  “Just decided to pack up and leave, I guess.”

“That’s brave,” he commented, facing forward and shutting his eyes.

“Or just stupid,” you snorted, and he smiled slightly.

“There’s a fine line between the two,” he replied, and you blinked.

“Look at you, Confucius,” you snickered, and his brows furrowed.

“That reminds me,” he said, opening his eyes and turning towards you.  “My name’s Jean.”  He held out his hand.

You reddened.  How could you forget something so mindlessly simple as asking for someone’s name?!

“[First],” you responded, extending your own hand and shaking his.  He smiled.

“Hope these three days and eight hours aren’t a total bitch,” he said with a wink, and you drew your hand away with a huff.

“They won’t be if you don’t make them so,” you replied airily, pulling out your phone.

“Who’s being Confucius now?” he joked and you shot him a glare.

“Jean, is that a French name?” you asked, purposefully diverting the conversation.

“Yeah,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck.  “My mom’s German, dad’s French.  She wanted to name me Johann, but they compensated with Jean.”

“People mispronounce that a lot?”

“All the time,” he groaned, rolling his eyes.  You chuckled.  “It’s either John or Jean like the pants or some other weird variation.  It sucks.”

“I can imagine,” you laughed, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly.

With a sudden jolt, the train started to move, the tracks rumbling beneath you as it sped out of the station and into the daylight.  

“Ready for three whole days stuck with each other?” Jean said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.  

“Oh, can’t wait,” you replied sarcastically, and he laughed.

* * *

You had underestimated just how long three days on a train was.  

Night was approaching fast as you and Jean loaded yourselves off of the train in Chicago, frantically looking around for a map, because goddammit the next train was on the other side of the station and you only had five minutes to get there.

You and Jean pelted through the crowd, your hand tight on the sleeve of his jacket as his longer legs outran yours.  You kept your eyes trained on the wide planes of his back as he zigzagged through the crowd, around frail old women and crying children, exasperated middle-aged businessmen and tired women hunching their shoulders to avoid eye contact with anyone around them.

And you started laughing, suddenly, inexplicably, just giggling as if you had just downed four glasses of champagne.  He turned back to look at you, one eyebrow raised curiously, and you just grinned at him, panting and breathless, your cheeks flushed with exertion.  His eyes widened and you saw color rush to his cheeks before he turned back around with a huff, wrenching his sleeve out of your grip and grabbing your hand.  

Your skin tingled at the contact and something buzzed in the pit of your stomach, something so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, something that had been buried under the weight of taxes and adult responsibilities.  

And when he finally swung to a stop in front of the platform as the train pulled up, you were thrumming with affection, the kind of affection that bursts out of you after you haven’t had anywhere to spend it in so long, the kind of affection that is so, oh so very dangerous.

* * *

You watched the lights of Chicago slide away through flickering eyelids, your head swaying on your neck.  

“Tired?” Jean joked, and you could feel his warmth radiating into your bones and it only made you sleepier.

You hummed in response, your head flopping sideways, straight onto his shoulder.  You felt him stiffen, but your brain was too exhausted to send a you-probably-shouldn’t-be-doing-this signal.  You just sighed, sidling closer to him.  

“‘S this okay?” you mumbled.

“Yeah,” he murmured, and you heard him yawn before something slid around your shoulders, and a head rested on top of your head.  “‘S fine.”

You smiled sleepily.

* * *

Three days on a train with no one else to talk to is an excellent way to get to know a person, you realized.  Over the course of those long, long days to San Francisco, you learned his likes, dislikes, his favorite color, movie, food, animal, TV show, the names of his parents, siblings, weird aunts and uncles, you had heard all of the embarrassing stories, and he had learned about you, simply because there was nothing else to talk about.

But now California was inching closer as the Nevada deserts swept by, Las Vegas a glimmering sphere of light in the distance.  The two of you had taken to resting your heads on the other’s shoulder, and somehow when you returned to consciousness, your fingers were intertwined with his.  

What was this?  You wondered if it would be better to just not give it a name.  

Finally, the conductor was announcing San Francisco Station in a tired, dry voice, you were gathering up your things, and shuffling after Jean out into the cold, foggy San Francisco air.  As you were trudging out of the station, you had a fleeting desperate wish, a wish for that train ride to never have ended.  

“So,” you started conversationally as both of you stood awkwardly on the sidewalk.  

“So,” he replied, sticking his hands in his pockets.  

It was now or never, you decided.  This thing, this thing that had started as a chance encounter on a train ride, had turned into something more, something that had violently blossomed over those three long, long days.  You liked him, you decided.  You liked him a lot.

Moving swiftly, deftly, you grabbed his face with both hands and pulled his lips to yours.  

And it was everything you had wished for.

Your hands snaked around his neck as his came to wrap around your waist, your lips meeting and parting and meeting again as you drew everything you could out of this one embrace in the cold San Francisco air.  

The two of you finally broke apart, your panting breaths steaming in the air.

“You never told me how long you were going to be in San Francisco for,” you breathed, your eyes searching his.

“Well,” he started, pulling you closer.  “I think I might be staying a little longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i get tired of writing about death and sadness
> 
> on that note, the next drabble will be about death and sadness


End file.
